


Not So Easily Broken

by SarcasticSmiler



Series: Procrastinating One Shots [13]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-BOFA, contains somewhat graphic depictions of post battle, hurt!Fili - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2018-05-23 06:03:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6107349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarcasticSmiler/pseuds/SarcasticSmiler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Honestly I just needed some Fili angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I've started writing this because I had a craving for hurt Fili, it's wrong, but he hurts so beautifully. Though, frankly, I think I'm just hurting everyone at the moment.
> 
> I should also point out that I'm not a fan of the whole Kili/Tauriel ship, I honestly prefer them as just being friends, so in this, that is all they are.

“No. No, no, no, no. Don’t you leave me, Thorin, you’re not allowed to leave me,” Bilbo pleaded, frantic hands scooping snow and small chunks of ice onto Thorin’s wounds, hoping against hope that just as it stopped the river from flowing so would it stop Thorin’s precious blood from doing the same.

“Wake up, Thorin!”

A sharp slap to a bearded cheek made the dwarf King’s eyes flutter, his breath catching before falling into a shallow rhythm.

“Stay with me you confounded dwarf. I didn’t traipse across all of Middle Earth just for you to die on me now. How am I to enjoy my books and my armchair, when I know you’re not enjoying those blastedly hard rocks and dizzying heights of your own home?” Bilbo prattled on.

The flow of red was slowing, Bilbo could only hope it was due to the cold and not through a lack of it. Keeping up a steady stream of chatter, the hobbit continued to pile snow and ice onto Thorin’s wound, his blood tacky hands having long since lost all feeling.

-x-

“Breathe, mellon nin, breathe,” Tauriel coaxed, as she frantically tore a strip of fabric from her tunic to bind Kíli’s wound.

“Tau-riel,” Kíli gasped, “It h-hurts.”

“I know, just breathe for me,” Tauriel’s voice was almost unnaturally calm, even for her, as she tried to soothe the dwarf before her. Carefully moving him to secure her makeshift bandage.

Bending over his prone form, Tauriel brushed strands of hair from Kíli’s eyes with careful fingers, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, “I will get you to safety,” she promised, breath warm against his chilled skin, “just breathe for me, mellon nin, breathe and hold on.”

Kíli could only whimper as he was swept into deceptively strong arms, and, in a flurry of long red hair, carried from the ruins of Raven Hill.

-x-

The world was indistinct.

Hazy and oddly bright.

_Cold._

He was _so cold_.

A movement.

Barely a twitch.

His leg, perhaps?

Heat shot through him.

Like a poker freshly drawn from the fire.

Red and so very painful.

A barely there gasp escaped dry, chapped lips.

The world rolled into unforgiving darkness.

-x-

“Bilbo!”

Dwalin staggered across the uneven ground, his expression stricken as he took in the sight of the hobbit and his King.

“Bilbo, is he…?”

“Not yet,” Bilbo choked out, barely sparing a glance to the dwarf who’d dropped to his knees beside him.

“The battle is coming to an end, we have a chance to save him.”

“I-I can’t carry him.”

“You won’t have to, laddie, look.”

Turning watery eyes to the sky, an almost hysterical laugh escaped Bilbo’s lips.

“Thorin, Thorin look. The Eagles are here, they’re coming, Thorin. Thorin!”

Another slap to the cheek and Thorin’s lashes fluttered. It was enough, for Bilbo it _had_ to be enough.

-x-

“We’re almost there, so very close,” Tauriel promised, the healing tents spanned the horizon. Long legs picked up the pace, feet sure even on the bloody quagmire the battlefield had become.

Kíli groaned, breath panting out in his pain.

“Just breathe and all will be well,” Tauriel promised, ignoring the darkening bruises on Kíli’s throat, the blood soaking the makeshift bandage. Her eyes, her archer’s focus, trained on the tents before them, growing in size as her long legs swallowed the distance.

-x-

Floating.

He was floating.

Somewhere between the unforgiving darkness and the now murky light.

Floating though there was stone against his back.

Cold stone.

He was so very cold.

But the cold tempered the burning poker.

Cooling it to a brittle metal.

Breath stuttered from freezing lungs.

He did not want to feel the metal crumble and break.

-x-

“Come,” Dwalin said, voice gruff as he led Bilbo away from the rocky outcrop they’d found themselves on, watching the Eagle carrying the dwarf King away from them.

Bilbo merely nodded, following where the heavy hand on his shoulder led him. It was the most compliant Dwalin had ever seen him, and it worried the dwarf greatly.

“You did what you could,” Dwalin tried to comfort, “Oin will see to him now, patch him up the best they can to keep him from Mahal’s Halls for a while longer.”

“There was so much blood though, Dwalin. So much…” Bilbo trailed off, eyes looking at his own blood stained hands.

“The line of Durin is not so easily broken, remember that, Bilbo. It takes more than a bit of blood loss to bring us down,” Dwalin hoped Bilbo couldn’t hear the worry and unease underlining his words.

-x-

Tauriel entered the first tent she reached.

Healers of all races rushed about tending to those that they could help, comforting those they could not.

“I need help!” she cried, the bundle in her arms limp but breathing. Kíli had lost the battle to stay awake mere footsteps from the tents.

“Here!”

Tauriel followed a fellow elf to an empty cot, lowering her friend to it’s scratchy sheets.

“Help him,” she pleaded, stepping back as the elf set to work, slicing away the sodden bandage and cutting into Kíli’s clothing to reveal the wound, still sluggishly oozing blood.

Tauriel stepped back, practically huddled against the side of the tent as she watched. Orders were shouted out and the subsequent flurry of activity around the cot made it next to impossible for her to even catch a glimpse of Kíli.

“Are you hurt?” a gruff voice suddenly asked causing Tauriel to blink and look down at the dark haired dwarf in confusion.

“ _Are you hurt_?” he asked again, gesturing to her bloodstained tunic.

“No,” she answered, “A few cuts and bruises, nothing more. Others have more need of you than I.”

With a nod of his head, the dwarf was off again, barking out orders as another wounded dwarf was carried in.

-x-

Lashes fluttered on pale cheeks.

Their delicate weight too much to bear.

Such a burden denying him the comfort of the waning light around him.

Everything was dark and cold.

But the cold was seeping away.

Leaving a heaviness in its wake.

A creeping numbness.

-x-

Bilbo sat on a wooden crate outside of Thorin’s tent, staring blindly at it’s opening, fists opening and closing in the tattered fabric of his jacket.

They’d brought him water to wash his hands in and a healer to tend the wound on his temple. Dori had scrounged up some cram, but it sat like ash upon his tongue.

Oin had not yet left the King’s tent, hours had passed since Bilbo had taken up his post on the crate, and Oin had not left the tent.

The sun was kissing the horizon when Bofur came to him, a battered steaming mug in hand.

“Here,” he said, “Something to keep you warm during your vigil.”

Frozen, cramping fingers curled around the warm mug as Bofur coaxed him to drink. It was some form of soup, though Bilbo would be hard pressed to say what was in it. But it was warm and filled his belly.

-x-

“We’ve done all we can,” the elf said, wiping his bloody hands on a piece of cloth.

“His chances?” Tauriel asked, crouching by the cot to take Kíli’s cool hand into her own.

“Fair enough, as long as infection doesn’t set in too heavily and we can keep him still while his body knits itself back together.”

“Thank you. Do you think you could get a message to one of Thorin Oakenshield’s Company that Kíli lives?” she asked, looking up at the elf next to her, hands still trying to rub some warmth into Kíli’s.

“I can certainly try,” the elf said with a nod, heading to the tent opening to call out to those less injured dwarves passing.

-x-

The moon was rising in the sky when Oin finally emerged from Thorin’s tent to find most of the Company gathered around Bilbo on his wooden crate. The healer’s tired eyes taking in bandages, bruises and expectant faces.

“The King will live, Mahal willing,” he declared, watching everyone sag in relief, before asking “Is everyone accounted for? Their wounds tended?”

“As far as we know,” Bofur offered, “Bifur’s getting his head checked out after a bit of a mishap with his axe, Kíli’s with that elf of his, on bed rest for now till the healers say otherwise, and Dori’s off fussing over Ori, got a bit of a sprained wrist the lad did.”

“And what of Fíli?” Oin asked, adjusting his hearing trumpet in case he’d missed the part about the oldest prince.

“He…” here Bofur stuttered to a stop, a frown dragging his brows down as he tried to recall where the prince was.

“He fell,” Bilbo gasped out, turning stricken eyes to Dwalin, “He…Azog, he dropped him and, oh Green Lady, we left him. We…we were so focused on Thorin that we left him.”

“Where?” Oin demanded, he may be tired and worn, but he was a healer and would not rest till all his charges were accounted for.

“R-raven Hill,” Dwalin answered, blood draining from his face, bringing his tattoos into stark relief. “I didn’t even think to check if he still breathed, after the wound Azog inflicted and the fall, I just assumed he was gone and turned my thoughts to Thorin.”

“Well turn them back again!” Oin snapped, marching in the direction of the battlefield once more. He held little hope for the lad’s survival but until he was faced with a body he would run on the assumption that there was breath within him yet.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and commented. I'm honestly floored by the response to this little fic of mine. I hope the rest of it doesn't disappoint.

Legolas traversed the cracking ice, light footsteps silent in the night. His eyes fixed on something glinting in the pale moon light, glinting in a way neither ice or swords ever did.

A desire for solitude had drawn him to this rocky outcrop, a desire for a moment away from the cries of the wounded and the stench of the battlefield to contemplate his father’s words to him.

It was curiosity that refused to let his eyes waver from that soft glint in the growing darkness.

A dwarf.

Lying broken on the ground, like a marionette whose stings had been severed.

The pale blue of his lips stark against the dark red of drying blood.

It was a bead, Legolas noticed, that had caught his attention. It’s cool metallic surface catching the faint rays of moonlight.

Stepping closer to the fallen dwarf, Legolas studied his face. The features were familiar, though the hair, now tinged with blood and grime, was darker than when he’d seen it last. One of the dwarves of Oakenshield’s Company, he was sure, one of the young ones with enough knives to fill a small armoury.

Legolas stepped closer still, dark brows drawing down into an almost imperceptible frown.

_There_.

And again.

If it wasn’t for the sharp eyes of his kind, Legolas doubted he would’ve seen it, the barely there rise and fall of the dwarf’s chest.

_He was alive._

-x-

Dwalin and Bilbo trudged through the muddy expanse of the battlefield, Oin marching determinedly ahead of them.

With a gulp Bilbo took in the sights around him; Men, Elves, and Dwarves sorting through the fallen. Orc and Goblin corpses were being thrown into piles, ready for burning. Some, Bilbo noticed, already had angry orange flames licking at the pale, bloated limbs of the enemy, an acrid, oily smoke curling above the corpses.

Sturdy carts, brought by the Dwarves of the Iron Hills, were dotted about. Their wooden beds being filled with the bodies of the allies, while rams waited patiently to pull them back to the camp and the kin waiting there to identify them.

Bilbo resolutely turned his eyes away once they alighted upon two Men of the Lake grimly skinning a fallen warg, a pile of bloody pelts sitting beside them.

His books never spoke of what happened after great battles were fought. They spoke of the heroes, the victories, and the joyous celebrations that followed.

They made no mention of the churned up earth, stained with the blood of thousands.

They never spoke of the screams of the injured or the cries of the dying.

They glossed over the bloated, severed limbs, good for nothing but carrion for the birds.

He trudged on, eyes fixed firmly on the ground before him.

-x-

Though he held no particular regard for Dwarves, Legolas knew that he was not cruel at heart. He could not find it in himself to deem it a kindness to allow the dwarf to simply slip away. After all that had been lost that day, he felt it was his duty to help preserve whatever life remained, regardless of if it’s hold was tenuous at best.

Dropping to a crouch beside the stocky body, Legolas tried to gauge the most effective way to help the fallen dwarf before him. The cold had helped seal the wounds that he could see, and his drifting consciousness should help protect against the pain of movement.

Running a critical eye over the splayed form, he carefully moved the limbs into more favourable positions before slipping his arms beneath the dwarf and lifting him.

A quiet grunt escaped Legolas’ throat as he met a slight resistance. A wound to the dwarf’s back, unknown to him, had bled upon the stone. The tacky liquid having dried and partially frozen in the cold night air, binding dwarf to stone with its gruesome hold.

Gentle tugs and the dwarf was free, head lolling against the elf prince’s shoulder, limbs limp and dangling. The general limpness of his burden proof to Legolas that he still had time, the rigor of death not yet upon him and if he could get him to a healer, and the gods favoured them this night, then it would be many years to come before this particular dwarf came close to making its acquaintance again.

-x-

The trek to Raven Hill that had felt like mere moments during the battle, seemed to take an age now. The moon was high in the sky as they clambered up the stone steps to the ruins above.

“Where did he fall?” Oin asked, breath showing white in the cold air of the night.

Bilbo looked around, squinting at the stone ruins that he was sure didn’t look quite so ominous during the day.

“This way,” Dwalin said, “Watch your step.”

Carefully picking their way across the cracking ice, sticking to those areas that showed the least amount of damage they made their way to the staircase they’d last seen Fíli and Kíli disappear into.

Dwalin’s fists clenched in anger.

He was angry with himself for not stopping Thorin from sending the lads away. Angry that for all their years of experience they didn’t stop for even a moment to realise something was _very_ wrong. They shouldn’t have split up, Kíli had still been healing from that damned arrow wound, for Mahal’s sake. It was a foolish mistake to send the young and still injured into such a situation.

“He fell some feet from here,” Bilbo’s voice dragged Dwalin back to the present, the hobbit searching for any recognisable areas of the ruins to point them in the right direction.

“From the highest open point,” Dwalin added, turning his eyes to the sky, following the stone’s outline. His sight might not be as sharp as a younger dwarf’s but it would be enough to find what he needed, “This way.”

-x-

Balin looked up at the groan from the bed; kind, worried eyes taking in the King’s expression as he grimaced against the pain.

“Lie still, laddie,” he coaxed, hand gentle on Thorin’s shoulder, “You’ve quite a few stitches in you, and Oin won’t be best pleased if go and rip them out.”

A less than eloquent grunt and Thorin settled back down, forcing his eyes open the barest amount to fix Balin in his hazy sights.

“The hobbit?” he asked, voice hoarse from battle cries.

“Well, he is well,” Balin placated, retaking his seat, “He is currently with my brother and Oin, searching for your nephew.”

“Kíli lives?”

“As far as we’ve been told, yes,” Balin answered, a slight frown tugging at his brows, “The healers have ordered him to bedrest.”

Relief flooded through Thorin, eyes fluttering closed as the band of worry clamped around his chest loosened slightly. The hobbit survived, he had a chance to truly make amends, and his youngest sister-son lived, there was hope still for the line of Durin.

His relief was short lived, however, as he recalled the fall of his oldest. Guilt lodged in his throat and pricked at his eyes.

Clenching his teeth, he turned his face from Balin and fell back into a pain tinged sleep.

-x-

“He was here, I _know_ he was here!” Dwalin growled, prowling back and forth like a caged wolf in his agitation.

“It seems he was at one point at least,” Oin assured, crouching as much as his old knees would allow to inspect the bare stone before them. Fingers pressing against the drying blood, almost as black as the shadows in the faint moonlight.

“But where could he have gone?” Bilbo asked, fingers worrying at the edge of his battered waistcoat, “Everyone else is on the battlefield. Could scavengers have come and taken him so soon?”

“No, lad,” Oin groaned as he straightened up, “There’d still be…parts of the prince left if scavengers had taken him.”

“There where could he have gone?”

“That is something I’d like to know myself, lad.”

-x-

“Hush, now, you’re safe,” Tauriel cooed as Kíli twitched and whimpered on his cot. Sweat beading on his brow as phantom shapes wielding sharpened steel flit behind his eyelids.

“Fíli, no…” he whimpered, a single glistening tear sliding down into his hair, spread out on the makeshift pillow below him.

“Hush, mellon nin, all will be well,” Tauriel tried again to soothe him, “Rest now, rest and heal.”

-x-

“My Lord,” the light haired elf startled at Legolas’ swift approach.

“You are a healer, are you not?”

“I am, my Lord.”

“Then I shall leave this dwarf to your more capable hands,” Legolas said, passing his burden to the healer’s arms, “He lives, though barely.”

“My Lord?” he had no chance to question Legolas further as the prince turned, now free of his duty, and slipped from the camp as quietly as he had entered. He had preparations to make and days of travel ahead.

Finally turning his confused gaze to the dwarf in his arms, the healer turned to enter the tent behind him. In the dim light he walked between the cots of the injured, cradled in the healing arms of sleep, to lower his new charge on a recently vacated bed.

With nimble fingers he removed the dwarf’s clothing, tugging gently where the fabric clung to bloodied wounds. He blinked, pity shining in his eyes, once the dwarf’s back was uncovered.

If he survived the night, it would be a miracle indeed.


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I got a little stuck.  
> This is rather short, but I'm hoping it's better than nothing.  
> Thank you to all who've commented and left kudos, I am forever grateful to you all, even if I am bloody useless at replying to comments.

Bilbo stumbled into Thorin’s tent, only to drop wearily onto the stool Balin had vacated at their entrance.

“Rest here a while, laddie,” the older dwarf suggested, hand warm on Bilbo’s shoulder as he steadied the clearly dazed and exhausted hobbit.

“Of course, Balin, just for a little while,” Bilbo mumbled, eyes trailing after Oin as the dwarf checked over Thorin’s bandages, tutting and murmuring to himself.

Dwalin stood by the tent’s entrance, arms crossed over his broad chest, standing tall, as immovable as the mountain. Balin’s eyes, however, picked up the slight droop to his brother’s shoulders that hadn’t been there before.

“The lad?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“Not there. We searched what we could, but there was nothing. No way to track him, just…” Dwalin sighed, fingers digging into his arms in frustration, “I’m going to check the carts, someone probably found him before we did. Keep…keep the hobbit here, he’s seen enough of death and despair for one day.”

“Aye, brother,” Balin’s voice followed Dwalin as he turned and strode from the tent.

Pausing for a moment, he closed his eyes, taking a fortifying breath of the crisp night air before squaring his shoulders and marching towards the carts that carried those that had been lost to them.

-x-

The water was barely even tepid as he dipped a clean rag into the bowl beside him, but he daren’t heat it any further for fear of causing further harm to the dwarf lying on the cot before him.

He had done what he could to clean, treat, and seal the worst of the wounds that had been inflicted upon the cold, still body, but there was still the highest chance that his efforts would be for naught.

The broad chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly, a movement still so slight that it was likely that any eyes but an elf’s would miss it. His lips retained their blueish tint, despite the warmth swirling in the air from the various braziers lit within the canvas confines of the tent.

But such a colour was to still be expected, even as the dwarf’s form lay uncovered and bare to the warmer air, excepting the modest cover of his small clothes, left to give some small measure of dignity in what could be the dwarf’s final moments.

As he drew the dampened cloth down the dwarf’s muscular arm, wiping away the grime and blood to reveal any smaller cuts and nicks that would need tending, the elven healer knew that the discolouration would only gradually fade, unless the grip of death was too strong to fight against. He knew the change would not be quick, as to heat the dwarf too quickly would be harmful to his weakened body and likely cost him what little life he had remaining.

Regardless of a dwarf’s nature, in such a state you could not heat him as one would a lump of iron, thrusting it within the caverns of a furnace.

No, this required something more subtle, more gradual, like a spring thaw slowly loosening winter’s grip till life could flourish once more.

-x-

“Lass?”

Tauriel looked up at the hatted dwarf, his fingers worrying a rather battered pipe between them.

“How is he?”

“Wounded and distressed, but given time, he will heal,” she sighed, patting at Kíli’s fevered brow with a cool, damp cloth.

“D’you think there might be a chance they’ll let us move ‘im to Thorin’s tent?”

“Perhaps,” Tauriel conceded, “Though you’ll have to speak to the healers about moving him in his current state.”

“Bofur?”

Kíli’s raspy voice drew the attention of both of his companions. Tauriel wiping away the beads of sweat on his cheeks and brow, as Bofur crouched beside his cot, a tired smile on his lips.

“Aye, lad, it’s me. Got yerself into a bit of bother it seems.”

“Where’s my uncle, my brother?”

“Yer uncle’s fine, lad, got some scrapes like yerself, but he’ll be on the mend in no time,” Bofur tried to be cheerful, but his tone faltered when hazy brown eyes fixed on his as well as they could.

“My brother? Where’s Fíli?” Kíli’s voice cracking on his brother’s name made Bofur flinch, the older dwarf wishing Kíli would’ve remained sleeping through his visit.

“We…” Bofur hesitated, he didn’t want to get the lad’s hopes up, yet at the same time he didn’t want to destroy them entirely either, “We’re still looking for him lad.”

Kíli stilled on his cot, breathing shallow, eyes hazy, distant, and glazing over in seeming fear turned skywards at Bofur’s words.

“We’ll find him lad,” Bofur promised somewhat foolishly, shoving his pipe into a pocket to rest a reassuring hand on Kíli’s shoulder.

No response was forthcoming as Kíli released a shuddered breath and succumbed to dark fevered dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does Kili always freeze when something happens to his brother? It happens with the stone giants, and in Fili's, well, I'm going to call them 'final moments'. This normally rather animated dwarf just...stops. But Fili's the opposite, something happens to Kili and he's all movement and screaming Kili's name.
> 
> Oh if anyone has any suggestions for a name for Fili's elven healer I'd be glad to hear it, he really needs a name and I don't really know of any for him.
> 
> In theory, with some time skips, I could have this done in maybe two or three more parts...whether that happens or not, well, we'll just have to wait and see I suppose.  
> This is perhaps one of those things where I should've had more of a plan than just 'Fili angst!'


	4. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the name suggestions, I had a little trouble figuring out who was going to be who in the end though as I kept going 'oh! I like that one. And that one's good too.' Having the names has actually helped me figure out how a few things are going to happen.
> 
> I'd say I hope you enjoy, but I'm not sure that 'enjoy' is the right word to use.

“Nestaron? Are you here?” a voice called, “I have the water you requested.”

“I’m here, Pellromir,” Nestaron answered, rising from the recently vacated cot he’d wearily slumped upon, head in his hands as he lamented the loss of life. It had been two days since the battle and still death walked among them.

“Are you well?” Pellromir asked, frown tugging at his dark brows as he took in the pale complexion and weary posture of the elf before him.

“I am as well as I can be,” waving away the concern, Nestaron took the iron pot filled with steaming water, “I lost the dwarf in the night.”

“Infection?”

Nestaron hummed an affirmative, winding his way through the cots and sleeping wounded, to the one he’d tucked in the furthest corner, away from any stray breeze likely to come from the tent’s opening, “I spent the night chasing it, but by morning the battle was lost. It seems even the stubbornness of dwarves is no match against such a thing.”

“And this one?” Pellromir asked, gesturing to the prone form seemingly buried beneath what blankets and furs could be spared, only the off white of the bandages around the head visible.

“Improving, though slowly,” a quiet sigh slipped past his lips as he sat upon the small stool by the cot, placing the warm water beside him before he began unravelling the bandages, “I fear his hold on life still tenuous, but while it remains I’ll endeavour to strengthen it.”

“I wish you luck and shall leave you to your task then,” with a bow of his head, dark hair slipping over his shoulder, Pellromir turned and left the tent, a few stray snowflakes drifting in before he could close the flap.

Nestaron’s eyes returned to his charge, long fingers carefully freeing the matted braids once the bandages had been set aside. The dwarf’s hair needed washing before the grime coating the strands allowed infection to spread to the substantial gash on the back of his head. He’d carefully sponged away the worst of the blood and grime, but feared truly washing and leaving it to dry while the dwarf’s body was still chilled. After spending the past two days coaxing warmth back into the dwarf, he hoped it would now be safe to do so.

With clean cloths laid out, Nestaron carefully shifted the unresponsive body. His large hand cupped around the base of his skull, supporting his head over the pot, as the other dipped a wooden bowl in the water and gently poured it over the flaxen strands.

-x-

Balin’s eyes roamed over the poor souls occupying the cots as he entered the tent, taking note of young Kíli twitching in his fever induced sleep, the red headed elf Bofur had told them of seated beside him.

“May I help you, Master Dwarf?” a voice called causing Balin to look up at the elf beside him, wiping bloodied hands on a cloth.

“I’m looking for an elven healer named Valinein,” Balin said, “Could you possibly point me in his direction?”

“No need, Master Dwarf,” the elf said, an exasperated sigh slipping between his lips, “I assume you’ve come to discuss my dwarven patient?”

“I have indeed,” Balin nodded, before stepping back slightly and offering a bow, “Balin, at your service.”

“Valinein, at yours,” the elf replied, inclining his head respectfully, “Though I will say to you as I said to your hatted companion. The dwarf has a fever and I am loath to move him before it breaks, the weather outside is no place for the injured, regardless of how quickly you could move him.”

“I understand your concerns,” Balin conceded, hands folded on his belly just below the tips of his beard, “But surely with the amount under your care, you could relieve yourself of some of the burden and allow us to move him? I assure you, once moved he’ll be under the care of our best dwarven healer and surrounded by his kin.”

“From his fevered cries, I suspect the kin you wish to surround him with are not the ones he seeks.”

Balin was a mite taken aback at Valinein’s words, though it took but a few moments to compose himself again, “Aye, you could be right in that suspicion. If the lad is calling for his brother, then I’m afraid there’s naught for it. He cannot be found, though we’ve searched high and low, his brother is lost to us.”

“My sympathies,” Valinein offered, voice soft, “This war has cost us much.”

“It has,” Balin agreed, “Perhaps now you can understand why we’d like the lad to be with us? With one brother lost, we cannot help but be fretful when the other is not in our sights.”

“I can understand your reasoning, Master Balin, but please understand mine. Until his fever has broken, moving him would be detrimental to his health, and so it is not something that I can, in good conscience, allow. Let me to treat him in peace, wait for the fever to break, then I shall discuss moving him with you again.”

Inclining his head in acquiesce, Balin excused himself and approached the young prince.

“Oh Kíli lad,” he murmured sadly, brushing damp strands of hair from his face, “What are we to do with you?”

-x-

With a shake of his shoulders, Dwalin dislodged the lingering snowflakes from his furs. Their pure, untainted gleam making a mockery of the carnage spread out before him. Twirling and dancing in the breeze, as Dwarves, Men, and Elves continued to drift amongst the sea of bodies, searching for familiar faces, and falling to their knees in despair when they found them.

Two days since the battle and Dwalin continued his search, the miasma of death now an ever present companion.

Having had no luck with those brought in from the battle field, he’d turned his eyes to the more frequent carts now coming from the healing tents. Though part of him prayed he’d not find Fíli amongst them.

He could accept the young heir’s fate if he’d fallen in the battle as they believed, though he’d forever mourn his loss.

But if he’d survived long enough to be brought to the tents, only to have that small hope snuffed out…

If they’d abandoned him, forgotten him, where there had still been a chance?

Dwalin was sure the guilt would crush him.

-x-

Warmth.

Like a breath ghosting over flesh.

Soothing in a way the burning heat of pain was not.

Melting away the numbness.

A drum.

Slow beating and distant.

It called to him.

Phantom caresses.

Like a mother’s fingers combing through hair.

Soft, careful, calming.

The darkness shook to the slow steady beat.

Calling him closer.

-x-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any of you that follow me over on tumblr, thank you for putting up with my mini bitching posts about writing this clogging up your dashes.


	5. Part Five

“Balin, what news of my sister-son?” Thorin asked, barely allowing the older dwarf the chance to enter the tent before lifting himself up and demanding answers.

“Thorin,” Oin grumbled, trying and failing to see to the King’s wounds as he shifted about, “If you don’t lie still I _will_ tie you to this bed.”

With an agitated huff, which Oin pointedly ignored, Thorin dropped back down. Eyes fixed on Balin as he impatiently waited for an answer.

“Fevered still,” Balin answered, warming his chilled hands over the brazier by Thorin’s bed, “His healer will hear nothing about moving him till it’s broken.”

“An elf would keep him from me?” the King grit out before grunting as Oin poked at a particularly tender part of the largest wound on his chest.

“And you’d do well to listen to him,” Oin snapped, though just as fond of the elves as his companions, he still felt some kinship with the healers of other races, “The lad has a fever, is fighting infection, and you want to move him in this weather?”

“I would have what is left of my kin _here_ , with _me_ ,” Thorin growled, channelling the pain of his wounds into anger and frustration at not being able to _do_ anything.

“You’ll have no kin left at all if you carry on like that,” Oin snorted, highly unimpressed with the King’s attitude, but not particularly surprised.

-x-

“Bilbo?” Bofur’s voice was soft, breath clouding in the cold air as he approached the hobbit, “We’ve been looking all over for ya, lad.”

Bilbo’s laugh was bitter, his smile sharp, as he turned red rimmed eyes to Bofur, “At least I can still be found.”

“Bilbo…”

“We left him, Bofur, _forgot_ about him,” Bilbo’s voice snapped out, as close to a snarl as Bofur had ever heard from the hobbit as he gestured angrily at the broken outline of Raven Hill, “There’s only fourteen of us, is that really so great a number that one of us can be so _easily_ forgotten?”

“Bilbo, it’s…”

“Don’t you _dare_ say it wasn’t my fault, don’t you _dare_ say there was nothing I could’ve done,” Bilbo’s eyes were wild, pointing a trembling finger at the dwarf before him, “You weren’t _there_ , Bofur, you weren’t there when… the eagles came and we just left. No thought for Fíli, no thought for Kíli. We just _left_.”

“Come back with me, Bilbo, come eat something, warm up, and rest,” Bofur coaxed, placing a careful hand on the shivering hobbit’s shoulder, only to have it shrugged off almost instantly.

“I can’t, Bofur,” Bilbo choked, “Not yet, I just…I _can’t_ be around the others yet, I can’t face them.”

“Alright then, lad, alright,” Bofur conceded, backing away from the hobbit as he tried to regain some form of composure, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides.

-x-

The edges of the pages were curled and stained from the trials of the journey, but through pure luck the journal had stayed intact. Some of the ink was smeared, but the words were legible, the image only smudged a little round the edges.

_Fíli, son of Dis. Heir of Durin’s Line._

With his sprained wrist curled against his chest, Ori traced over the words, fingers of his undamaged hand brushing feather light over the portrait.

Heir, Fíli may have been, but he’d also been Ori’s friend.

He sighed, listening to his brothers’ bicker behind him.

He was lucky, he knew that, to have both brothers survive with little more than a few cuts and bruises. Just the thought of losing one of them made his breath catch and his heart stutter.

He couldn’t imagine how Kíli would feel when his fever finally broke. Ori knew the young prince was far closer and more reliant on his older brother than he himself had ever been.

Where, to him, Dori had been like a parent and Nori largely absent; Fíli had always been Kíli’s protector, catching him and inevitably saving him when he ran head first into trouble without a second thought.

With the loss of his brother, Kíli didn’t have that to fall back on now and Ori struggled to see how he’d cope.

-x-

Gold.

As far as the eye could see.

Mountains and rivers of it.

Gems of every colour and size.

Yet for once in his life, Gloin couldn’t stomach the sight of a single coin.

While others began clearing some of the more habitable areas of Erebor, he had been sent to the treasury to calculate and collect what was required.

The Men of the Lake wanted reparations.

Thranduil still desired his gems of starlight.

Gloin sat slumped on the stone staircase leading down to the golden wasteland, locket sitting open in his palm. His beloved wife and son kept safe within.

They had their mountain.

They had their gold.

But when the caravans of Durin’s Folk returned, Gloin knew their victories would be nothing but bitter ash upon the tongue.

A thick thumb brushed over young Gimli’s cheek.

He did not envy Thorin the task of telling Dis what became of her eldest.

-x-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I've got to know, please, did anyone else well up over Gloin's bit? I can't get past it without tears trying to blur my vision and I know that's because I can see him, I can see his face, but with that short section, did I do him justice?


	6. Part Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a time skip, just a little one though

Bofur stretched, hands planted on his lower back as his spine popped and cracked, a satisfied groan escaping his lips. Shaking out his arms, he surveyed the cleared space before him.

It had taken them a week to clear the wide cavern that once held Erebor’s bustling indoor market, but would soon be home to a veritable city of tents and makeshift homes.

A week to shift hunks of stone and dragon excrement.

A week to assess the structural integrity of the remaining columns and deem them safe.

A week to respectfully remove any dwarven remains.

A week in which the Company threw themselves into any work they could find to distract themselves from the task of searching out and preparing a burial tomb, a final memorial, for their Lost Prince.

Bofur had heard the term first whispered among Dain’s dwarves.

Quiet murmurs drifting from ear to ear till the Prince’s name was almost lost in favour of the epitaph.

He’d felt their eyes watching him.

Saw them watching the Company.

Looks of pity when Dwalin’s steps hitched at the sight of golden hair on still, lifeless bodies.

Looks of unease when the King raged in his tent.

Looks of sad understanding when the Company fell to heavy silence around the camp fires.

-x-

Nestaron was aiding a Man of the Lake when he heard it.

A quiet, barely there, groan of pain.

Helping the Man raise a bowl of warm stew to his lips as he attempted to relearn depths after the loss of an eye to an orc blade, he listened for any further sound.

A soft whimper had him turning his head, eyes fixed on the small figure in the corner.

Eyelids twitched.

Then the dwarf fell silent and still once more.

-x-

Curled on the cot as much as his wounds would allow, Kíli stared blankly ahead, vaguely listening to life continue on around him.

It had been two days since his fever had broken.

Two days since he’d awoken clear headed.

Two days since he’d turned a questioning frown at Tauriel, asking where his brother was.

Two days since she’d shattered his belief that the loss of his brother was naught but fevered delusions.

His mind _screamed_ that it couldn’t be true.

Fíli wouldn’t leave him.

He’d said he belonged with him.

If he was dead then he wasn’t where he belonged.

If he was dead then it would make him a liar.

Kíli knew his brother was many things, but a liar wasn’t one of them.

His wounds throbbed with pain as he curled up tighter, feeling alone and truly vulnerable for the first time in his life.

Muffling a whimper against the cot, Kíli scrunched his eyes shut.

Fíli couldn’t be dead.

He just _couldn’t_.

-x-

Balin watched as the outer most tents were systematically taken down, rolled up, and moved into the mountain. Any wounded within them either making their way themselves, or wrapped up in blankets and furs on their cots, waiting to be carried into the warmth. Healers hovered near any of the more seriously wounded, calming those in distress.

A shiver ran through him as he oversaw it all, the snow had finally stopped falling, but the wind was still bitingly cold.

He was too old for this, a weariness settling in his bones.

Yet others around him were young, far too young.

His eyes fell upon a shivering dwarf, slowly making their way to the mountain, he couldn’t have been much older than young Ori. Balin’s gaze dropped to the bandages wrapped around a stump, the dwarf’s arm now stopping abruptly just above where their elbow once was.

Turning from the sight, Balin made his way back to the King’s tent.

Now was not the time to dwell on things that couldn’t be changed.

-x-

Laying propped up on pillows, Thorin breathed shallowly as he waited for the pain from shifting his wounds to pass.

A frustrated growl slipping between clenched teeth at another sharp throb.

He should be out there with Balin, overseeing the move into his mountain.

Not lying here, helpless, waiting for reports.

He had never been an idle King, and it chafed that he had to be one now.

The flap of his tent opening had his head snapping up, barely hiding a wince at the movement as Bard entered.

“Bowman,” Thorin’s greeting was gruff, but with everything that had happened, he couldn’t quite bring himself to utter something of a more diplomatic tone.

“Master Dwarf,” Bard inclined his head towards the bedridden King, “I’ve come to offer my condolences.”

A frown tugged at Thorin’s brows as he looked warily at the Man before him.

“I’ve only recently been told that you lost one of your own in the battle,” Bard continued, taking little notice of Thorin’s expression, “Fíli was a good lad, kept my girls safe from the orcs that invaded my home, and from Smaug’s attack, even when I couldn’t. I was so very sorry to hear that he had fallen. He was a truly brave and selfless soul.”

Thorin could hear the recrimination towards him in Bard’s tone.

“Aye, a good lad,” Thorin answered, voice so low Bard barely caught the words.

He was prevented from questioning Thorin, however, at the sudden entrance of Dain.

The Iron Hills Lord as loud in life as he was in battle.

“Cousin! That woodland sprite has finally decided to take his wee merry gathering back to tha’ forest o’his.”

“I shall leave you to your kin,” Bard quickly excused himself.

He would never understand dwarves and their ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know a few chapters back I said this could be done in about two or three more parts? Well I lied apparently. This has turned into something bigger than expected. I've so many damn tabs open for research for this, its unbelievable, and I'm only carrying out basic research, nothing too in depth and there's still dozens of them.
> 
> In Kili's part in this I originally wrote 'They belonged together', but it just didn't feel right, and I felt rather sad for Fili when I changed that line to something I felt fit Kili better - 'He’d said he belonged with him'.
> 
> In theory, Thorin and Kili should be reunited next chapter, but considering I've not written it yet I can't be 100%. I do, however, know that by the time they meet again Kili will be making the shift from denial to anger in that whole five stages of grief thing (one of the many research tabs currently open).


	7. Part Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place a couple of days after the previous chapter.

“Kíli, come along lad, Oin’s waiting and your uncle’s worried about you,” Balin coaxed, biting back a frustrated sigh as Kíli stubbornly remained on his cot, dark scowl firmly in place.

Balin had neither the time nor the energy to deal with the Princeling sat before him.

Moving everyone into the safety of the mountain was taking longer than he’d like, especially with Thranduil having abruptly decided to take the majority of his people back to that cursed wood of his. Those that remained were either too injured to move on their own accord, or healers who had chosen to linger so as to help their remaining patients into the mountain before they took their leave.

“Kíli,” he tried again, “We cannot linger, lad, if you will not come on your own two feet, Dwalin _will_ be carrying you.”

“He can _try_ ,” Kíli growled, anger and defiance sparking in his eyes as Dwalin shifted at the entrance to the otherwise empty tent, the young prince it’s only remaining occupant.

“Why are you fighting us on this?”

“That mountain, my _uncle_ ,” Kíli spat, “are the _reason_ my brother is _dead!_ I don’t want _anything_ to do with _either_ of them.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Balin sighed again, he should’ve expected something like this. The lad’s emotions had always ran high, and with the loss of Fíli it’d only stand to reason that he’d lash out like an injured wolf when cornered. But they couldn’t linger, the darkening clouds on the horizon promising a storm it would not be wise to be caught up in.

Resigning himself to deal with the consequences when they came, Balin stepped back.

It was time for his brother’s form of diplomacy.

-x-

"Captain Tauriel, I wasn't aware you'd remained behind."

"Nestaron," Tauriel inclined her head in greeting, "I stay for a friend, and being no longer welcome in Thranduil's Halls the title of captain is no longer mine to bear."

"Apologies, I wasn't aware."

"It is a recent thing, with everything that has happened I'm not surprised that you wouldn't know," Tauriel said eyeing up the iron pot of broth and precariously balanced bowls sitting in the crook of Nestaron's elbow, "Would you like help with that?"

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd greatly appreciate it."

"It's no trouble at all," carefully Tauriel removed the bowls from their unsteady perch, "To which tent are we going?"

"One of the furthest in, I'm afraid," Nestaron said, nodding to the tents in the deepest part of the mountain hall.

"So deep?" Tauriel's eyebrows twitched up slightly in surprise.

"Hmm, it seemed the best option as most of my patients now, as more of us leave, seem to be dwarves, and with some I couldn't chance any form of chill getting to them."

"Dwarves are a hardy folk, surely a mere chill couldn't bring them so low."

"In most? No, but in those that sleep without waking, I'll not tempt fate and put them at risk."

"You've many that have not woken?"

"Only one since the battle myself, but with the leaving of our kin I seem to have acquired three more."

"Perhaps dwarven skulls are not as thick as we've been led to believe," Tauriel mused as she held open the flap of the tent for Nestaron to enter with his heavier burden.

"May I ask why it is you chose to stay?" she asked, placing the bowls on a nearby table as Nestaron fussed with the contents of the pot.

"I couldn't abandon my charges," he answered, eyes flitting briefly to a blanket and bandage covered lump in the far corner, "and those that truly need me are not stable enough to travel to the Greenwood, though with the current resources at my disposal they’d be far better off in Thranduil’s realm."

"To take one's duty so seriously is admirable, even if it does come with such limitations."

"It was a duty given to me by the Prince himself," Nestaron's lips twitched into a small self-deprecating smile, "it'd not be right to discharge myself from such till my charge is either well or walking in the Halls of his Maker."

"Miss Tauriel?"

Both elves turned to the knitwear covered dwarf fidgeting in the tent’s entrance.

"Yes, Master Dwarf?"

"Your presence has been requested in the King's tent."

"Will you be alright to continue on your own?" Tauriel asked Nestaron as he began ladling broth into bowls.

"I'll be fine," Nestaron smiled at her, "My thanks for your aid, but you best be off. If the Dwarf King himself is calling for you then it must be important."

-x-

Light.

Soft and golden.

Like a flickering candle in the gloom.

The beat of the drum continued.

Louder than before.

Pain sparked with each beat.

Deep and throbbing.

It was instinct to shy away from it.

The light dimmed.

_No._

He didn’t want to fall into darkness again.

He wanted the light.

-x-

The shouting could be heard before the tent even came into view.

Brows tugging down into a slight frown, Tauriel looked to the dwarf walking beside her.

“Kíli’s been brought inside,” he explained, fingers fidgeting with his knitted sleeves, “He’s, um, well he’s not very happy about it.”

“For what purpose have I been summoned then?”

“Balin thought you might be able to calm him down.”

“Why me? Why not one of you, his kin?”

“He doesn’t particularly like any of us at the moment.”

With the King’s tent finally in sight, Tauriel’s eyes flicked curiously over the group of dwarves and one hobbit hovering anxiously outside of it, flinching at the words being thrown within.

_“It_ _’s **your** fault he_ _’s **dead**!_ _”_

_“I did not wield the blade that killed him, K_ _íli!_ _”_

_“No, you just **ordered** him **on to it**!_ _”_

_“It was a **battle** , these things **happen**! And need I remind you that it was **you** who shouted and ranted about others fighting for us? It was **you** who begged and pleaded for the pair of you to come on this quest._ _”_

_“I didn_ _’t know it would cost me my own **brother**!_ _”_

_“All battles come with a price! You know this! I lost my own brother to a war not in our favour, you should have known there was **always** a chance you_ _’d lose yours as well._ _”_

_“And that_ _’s supposed to make me feel **better**?! Wait_ _…are_ _…are you **happy** F_ _íli_ _’s gone? Now you_ _’re not the only brotherless dwarf in this cursed Company?_ _”_

At the break in Kíli’s voice, Tauriel had heard enough.

Striding forward, she yanked open the flap of the tent.

“Enough.”

“Who do you think you are, bursting in here?” Thorin growled, red faced from shouting, hands trembling in what could only be pain, if the growing red stain on his bandages was anything to go by.

Ignoring the dwarf King she made her way to Kíli, pressing on his shoulders to get him to lie back down.

“Tauriel?” his breath hitched, eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Hush, mellon nin, you still need to rest.”

“But he…”

“Hush, the enemy is to blame for your loss, not your kin.”

“But…”

“ _Hush_ ,” perching uncomfortably on the edge of the small cot, Tauriel carefully brushed back Kíli’s damp hair, “I am sure your brother would not be pleased with the way you are acting, he would not like it if you caused yourself further injury.”

She remembered the blond dwarf, hovering by his brother’s side in Laketown, concern writ clear across his face as she healed him.

With a whimper Kíli settled back.

“Who are you?” Thorin grit out again, suspicion clear in his eyes as he watched her with his sister-son.

“I am Tauriel, once of the Woodland Realm.”

“Why are you here?”

A gentle hand pressing against his shoulder held Kíli back from growling out a reply.

“Kíli is a shield-mate, a friend, I would see that he comes to no further harm, through either his own actions or others,” eyes flicking down to Thorin’s bandage wrapped chest, she asked, “Would you like me to fetch your healer to tend to you?”

Eyeing her for a moment, Thorin gave a short, sharp nod, a hiss of pain escaping clenched teeth as he settled back on his cot.

“I will be but a moment,” she soothed when Kíli grabbed her wrist.

Reluctantly releasing her, Kíli turned away from his uncle, hoping that if he ignored the older dwarf, then he’d be ignored in turn.

-x-

Nestaron was settling on a stool beside his unconscious charge, bowl of broth in hand, when he heard it again.

A groan.

Pained and rough.

But there.

Looking to the dwarf before him, he watched as dark golden lashes fluttered.

He held his breath, frozen in place, as those lashes lifted the barest amount, revealing a brief flash of blue before closing once more.

-x-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I /was/ originally thinking of taking Fili to Mirkwood, but I've been keeping him all bundled up and in the warmest places and I just couldn't bring myself to put him through the journey, I couldn't hurt him even more that way...which in and of itself is a bit odd considering its going to be a bit of a shit storm when he does finally wake up.  
> Also I now have /no idea/ how he gets found out, I mean all the dwarves in the same tent as him are out for the count, there's the partially blind guy and a couple of other Men, none of whom know who Fili is. So how do they figure it out?  
> Do I have Bilbo leave? Or does he stay?  
> Also at what point does Thorin drag himself past his pain, grief, and shame fuelled anger?  
> And somehow I've got to get Kili past his own 'me against the world' anger that he's got going on right now.  
> This story was meant to be simple Fili angst...what happened?


	8. Part Eight

It was such a small, simple thing.

The stone rough hewn.

Kíli could just make out the image of Mahal at his anvil through the gloom that seemed to linger in the little abandoned shop the soldiers had built the temporary shrine in. But he didn’t mind it. The shadows, untouched by the flickering light of the torches, hid the tears that rolled down his cheeks.

“ _Please_ ,” he whispered, voice hoarse from shouting at his uncle. “I beg you, don’t let it be true. Let this all be a dream. Tell me I’m still in Thranduil’s dungeon, or that this is all a fevered delusion from that damned orc arrow. Just don’t let it be true, _please_ Mahal, don’t take him from me.”

No matter how much Kíli pleaded, Mahal never answered.

His cold, blank eyes stared out from the stone, hammer held aloft.

He had no comfort to offer the grieving dwarf at his feet.

No words of wisdom.

Only the silence of a lost mountain slowly being reclaimed, and unheeding of his cries.

-x-

Light.

No longer soft but _blinding_.

A gasp.

Unheard.

But felt.

Pain.

So much pain.

Sharp and jagged.

Tight and tugging.

A…voice?

Words.

Indistinct.

But there.

Just out of his grip.

_Pain_.

Darkness rising.

_No!_

The light is changing.

Shifting.

A touch?

-x-

“Master Dwarf, can you hear me?” Nestaron called, not expecting an answer as the dwarf’s blue eyes rolled and his mouth opened in a silent scream.

Placing a gentle, anchoring hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, Nestaron’s sharp eyes catalogued every muscle twitch and spasm as the dwarf seemed to wage some inner battle.

“Just relax, you’re safe,” he murmured, voice soft and soothing. “Relax and sleep. Return to us when you’re ready, for now just relax. No harm will come to you here. Sleep and heal.”

Slowly but surely, the dwarf calmed, though his fingers still twitched sporadically against his sides.

Nestaron couldn’t help the sigh of relief that escaped him when the glazed over blue eyes closed once more.

Fetching a bowl of warmed water, he crouched by the slumbering dwarf’s side, carefully washing away the few droplets of blood that had risen from his sudden awakening. It was a relief to find the stitches had held on the worst wounds, the blood only coming from a few of the nastier nicks and scratches where the dwarf’s slight thrashing had knocked away the forming scabs.

-x-

Crouching comfortably upon a fallen pillar in the shadows, knife picking at the dirt under his fingernails, Nori listened absently to the conversations drifting on the air.

There an Iron Hills dwarf bragged about the length of his wife’s beard.

Over there a Man hummed a few notes as he warmed his hands by a fire.

Barely three feet away a group spoke in awed whispers about the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, though he stopped listening once they mentioned the Lost Prince.

“…thinks he’ll wake proper soon.”

“His special dwarven project?”

Nori’s ears perked up at the arrogant tones of elven healers.

“I still don’t quite understand what’s so special about him…if it even is a him, who can tell with all that hair.”

Nori’s fingers twitched in annoyance at the elf’s words, the grip on his knife shifting to something a little more dangerous.

“Something about the Prince himself tasking him with the dwarf’s care.”

“And I suppose Nestaron will be sure to brag about it till the next Age.”

“Only if the dwarf manages to survive.”

Rolling his eyes as the elves tittered, Nori soon let his attention drift to a small, friendly brawl between a couple of Iron Hills dwarves.

The elves’ words soon forgotten.

-x-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...it's been over a year since I updated this? I hadn't realised so much time had passed.  
>  Is there anyone out there who's even still willing to read this? If there is then I'm so sorry for abandoning this for so long, it wasn't my intention, I just didn't know how to continue.  
> I still don't know how to continue, this chapter is just basically me throwing words at the screen and hoping for the best. It's barely been proofread so I apologise for any and all mistakes you find.  
> I don't even know what's going on in the story anymore, it's been so long that it doesn't even feel like it's mine. I'm going to try and finish it this year though, this story deserves an ending, Fili deserves more.  
> ...here's hoping I don't fuck it up too badly.


	9. Part Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've proofread this but I'm rather tired so there's every chance I've missed something, so apologies in advance for any misspellings, grammatical errors, missed letters, or anything else.

Dwalin sat on the edge of the Doorstep, legs dangling over the ledge and a dejected slump to his shoulders as he gazed out at the Desolation.

The pyres for the enemy’s dead had long since burnt out, leaving black smudges on the land, like pox marks on diseased flesh.

He swayed as an icy gust of wind whipped around the mountain.

It was cold on the Doorstep, the carved ledge exposed to the elements, forcing Dwalin to huddle into his furs for what little warmth they still offered.

But he wouldn’t leave just yet.

Dain’s men didn’t know about the secret entrance, they wouldn’t look for him here.

Here, where he could embrace the solitude like an old friend and find some comfort in the mournful whistling of the wind.

He came here to grieve the loss of hope, for surely there was none to be found. It had been too long and it was time to accept that hope was far too fragile a thing for his coarse warrior’s hands to hold.

He would never truly stop looking, he knew that all too well.

His eyes always searching for comrades lost in battles long since passed.

But it was time to let his hope burn out and leave its own blackened mark upon him.

-x-

Shadows danced on canvas as the light flickered.

The world around him hazy.

He couldn’t move.

Except…

There was a tremor.

His hands would not lie still.

But he couldn’t _move_.

The shadows swirled and moved closer.

The drum beat louder, faster, harder.

Pain.

Burning.

There was no air.

He couldn’t breathe.

There was no _air._

“Calm, Master Dwarf, be calm, you are safe.”

An unknown figure loomed over him.

…though the voice seemed familiar.

A pale hand reached towards him.

He needed to get _away_.

_No_.

_Don’t touch me!_

_Don’t-_

-x-

Nestaron sighed as the dwarf’s eyes rolled back and he succumbed to unconsciousness once more.

The waking process was rarely smooth, and, he knew, for the battle torn, never easy. The fact that he _had_ awoken at all, however, could only be viewed as a positive sign, regardless of the panic it seemed to have induced.

Retrieving a damp cloth, Nestaron carefully wiped away the beads of sweat that had risen on the dwarf’s forehead.

The gentle swipes of the cool material seemed to ease any remaining tension, and Nestaron was pleased to note the trembling of the dwarf’s hands lessened as his muscles finally unclenched.

-x-

“What do you think you're doing?”

Thorin didn’t even spare Balin a glance from where he lay, propped up on his cot, a makeshift wooden tray covered in various sheets of parchment balanced on his lap. Though Balin noticed the young lad Thorin had apparently roped into being his errand boy looked suitably uneasy.

“Thorin, you need to rest,” Balin continued, not put off in the slightest by Thorin’s apparent inattention, “not mire yourself in this mess.”

“I am the King, Balin,” Thorin finally grit out, his clenched teeth and pale complexion testament to the level of pain slicing through his body. “I shall do as I please.”

“If you keep this up, lad, then Kíli will soon be our King,” Balin scolded, ignoring the shock widened eyes of Thorin’s errand boy turned towards him at his tone.

Far too many of Dain’s men were in awe of Thorin to the point of stupidity, from what Balin had observed of them. Willing to do whatever the King under the Mountain asked of them, regardless of the fact that they should simply tell the royal fool ‘no’ considering the state of him.

“I can’t just lay here doing _nothing_ , Balin,” he growled, finally deigning to lower the report he’d been attempting to read. “My people need me.”

“That is _exactly_ my point, Thorin,” silently, Balin cursed the stubbornness of Durin’s Line as he tried to make his King see sense. “We need you strong and whole, and for that to happen you need to rest and heal.”

“There is too much to do,” Thorin tried to reason, though Balin could see that he was beginning to relent. The pain of his wounds gradually getting the better of him once more.

“Until the first caravans arrive, which, I might add, is months away, there is little else to do other than surveying the old structures and clearing out the rubble. All of which the Company is fully capable of overseeing. We can easily work in your stead until such a time as you can begin to take on _light_ minor duties.”

“Balin…”

“You're dismissed, lad,” Balin gently ordered after hearing the slight crack in Thorin’s voice. As the lad moved past him to duck out of the tent, Balin moved closer to Thorin’s cot, finally taking a seat on the stool beside him.

“Balin…” Thorin tried again, documents finally forgotten upon his lap.

“You’ve _won_ , Thorin,” Balin said, reaching out to place a reassuring hand on Thorin’s forearm, he wasn’t surprised to feel his King trembling slightly. “You’ve taken back the Mountain, given us back our homeland and secured a future for our people. You’ve made sure that we’ll no longer have to beg for scraps from other’s tables. You’ve done what you set out to do all those long years ago. You’ve earned the right to rest, to heal. You’re _home_ , Thorin, you don’t need to struggle anymore.”

-x-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is about the fifth version of this chapter? I kept working on it, abandoning it, coming back and deleting whole sections of it, and then starting the process all over again. It only started to work once I realised I needed Dwalin to start it, then it kind of all fell into place after that.  
> Real life and mental health are kicking my arse at the moment, so I've no idea when I'll manage to get the next chapter of this out. Frankly I'm surprised I've managed to post this now, but after finally settling on something I actually liked I couldn't wait to post it. I hope it was alright.


End file.
